J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

The strange

Sour

In the

Seed.

Smith with paper parcel stepped out of The Game Club and walked east. Past the glittering entrances. Hotels and nightclubs. Doormen saluting to arriving and departing cars. So easy to go in one of these doors. Become a maniac. Buy the whole building out of my little bag of bank notes. Dismiss the doorman, bellboys, tell the customers to go. Clear out. Turn off the lights. Let me be in here. A secluded place to entertain Her Majesty. Supper by candle light. Spinach, egg plant and sour cream. Miss Martin with her gun could stand guard at the door. Shoot intruders. Bonniface as butler. And phantom figures chewing gum seen across in the park under the trees doing strange things with the procreative gifts of God.

Crossing the street to the plaza and the fountain. Smith sat down on the cool stone shelf around the water with his paper parcel between his feet. Figure which way to go. Put hands up to the cheeks of the face, rest elbows on the knees. A row of jaunting cars and sad horses. On this square foot make another small world. These last few days Miss Martin has been sour and tense. In the recent misery I have not dared to put my hands on her. Could be a restorative for us both. Frisking in the afternoon loneliness of Dynamo House. With the little letters that still arrive.

Wing Of Life Building

Dear Sir,

At the latest meeting we laughed at your request for mercy. What are your remaining assets. Learning of these we will talk further turkey.

Yours,

Jaws Inc.P.S. We will squeeze out what is left of your toothpaste.

And for all my worries, I can still broadcast an answer on the ether.

Arse Square Foot Of Plaza

Dear Jaws Inc.

As George Smith sitting near this fountain utterly alone, please do not view me as the giblets. For God's sake, would that you behave honourably and vouchsafe the human dignity.

Yours,

Good old George

P.S. There are impurities in the toothpaste.

Two brown shoes stopping in front of Smith. As he looks up in the semi darkness into a stranger's face with rimless glasses. Thigh muscles tightening, ready to run from this possible visitation of more discourtesy. Thank God no transit tracks are near.

"Buddy things could not be that bad. But I know how it feels. Here's a couple of coins. Go have a piece of pie and cup of coffee. Do you good. So long."

Figure floating away in the crowd. Smith taking the two coins, staring at them in the palm of the hand and slipping them in his waistcoat pocket. A little drop of water landing on the back of his neck and running down inside the collar. Sign of good luck. A pity to meet kindness. Lower one's guard. And wham.

That girl going by looks just like Shirl. I took her along here one summer evening just like this. White coated waiters brought us Scotch and sodas, olives and cheese tidbits. She sat white gloved, an attack of warts on her hands. She always felt she ought to try other men. Because of all she had to give. Months since I've been called Daddy. Thought it was unique to be a father. Get asked for an autograph. And when arrested for momentary unseemliness somewhere, you plead a married man with children. But the world stares back at you, ignoring your troubles, blindly terrified by its own. Shirl has her problems. The starlight shining dimmer and dimmer on her hair. Deep line under her cheek when she smiles. Lying under the coats on the hair sofa of Dynamo House, I counted up all the women I've had. Shirl fifth. I added Miss Tomson, counting in two figures. As Dizzy Darling she's one more. Matilda, that staggering bit of tan. Entwined she was three at once. Said I couldn't lift her. I said you just wait. Tried and dropped her. It was a good game we used to play on all fours.

Smith feeling the chill of stone strike up the bottom. Stood raising parcel to his arm, waving to taxies. Then stopping, turning, to climb into a jaunting car.

Promoting a brief friendly altercation with the driver, who gesticulated with his whip. A brand new bank note sparkling in the air. And they were jaunting up the avenue. Coachman telling Smith what happened to the horseshit. A little old lady comes late each evening and collects it for her sky garden.

At each hotel, stopping. Smith dismounting, pulling up a few corners of linen hanky in his dark suiting, another tucked up his sleeve. Foolishly in each lobby. Her Majesty the Queen, please. Eyebrows raised. Twice Smith slipping between the evening cocktail faces. Eyes staring after him as he lowered a brandy for the road. And once next to a dowager encrusted in gems, for one second through the dark light it could have been Her Majesty. Madam, may I trespass upon your buoyant property, God just told me it was mine.

"Why don't you give up mister. We've been to ten hotels. My horse is tired. Street's tough on his hoofs. I'm going to have a lame horse."

A note flashed crisply. Once more silence. Except for the clip clop. Odd waves from pedestrians. So many-fellow men about with vibrant lightheartedness. In the next hotel and bar, I vouch the clientele will merge into one big sigh of happiness.

"Mister this is positively the last. Look where I am. This is a berg."

"Are you unhappy."

"Yeah. My horse's feet hurt. I could be held up and robbed in this part of town."

In front of a grey stone building. A faded canopy out to the curb. A bronze plaque. Dim dark interior. Smith slipping across one more note to the horseman. And another asking him to wait. George reeling quietly through the heavy revolving doors into this elderly place. Little parcel held on his arm. To tip toe across the fat carpet and whisper boo at the reception desk. A balcony round the lobby with little tables, chairs and lamps. Doorman passing by with a miniature dog. Take it out to pee. That tiny canine would have been one mouthful for Goliath.

"Can I help you sir."

Smith looking out at the eyes. Holding the counter with uncertain hands. Mouth opening and closing. Eyes fixed on all the hanging keys. To open doors. Shirl seems to stand somewhere behind this desk. With her unlit heart. However cold you get, remember me. Gripped in solitude. There can't be a jamboree all the time.

"Excuse me sir, can I help you."

Smith swaying backwards. Surveying a potted palm. A forecourt, a little fountain. Drapes drawn on windows. Tall grey woman passing, silver sandals poking out under her gown. Marble cornices on the balcony. Across the soft distance of this lobby a green carpet disappearing under closed mirrored doors. Smith delicately separating the strings of his paper bag across his forearm. Focusing eyes once more. To the pigeon holes, brass numbers and red white and blue edges of foreign mail.

"Are you all right, sir."

Smith a feeble smile and wave of his hand. Life is made up of a lot of immediate events. Must not sidle across and pee upon that potted palm. Or with the handy screwdriver I happen to have in my pocket go over and unfasten the doorknobs to the ball room. How dare you keep such things there. To think it was only yesterday I distinctly heard a man walking by say he had the whole world under contract. Naturally I stopped him and asked if I could buy a piece. Regrettably to find he had only a three month option.

"Look mister, I don't know who you are."

"I'm drunk."

"At least you're honest."

Smith turning to a rustle of dresses for evening. Four pastel colored girls and three dark suited men. Clean and scented. All so elegant. Please let me come with you. Just to sit quietly by. To watch, listen, laugh. Lift me out of the dark abyss. Take me back into my own foolish life of youth before I wisely made money. A little of it in this parcel. To scatter around this lobby. Can't you see I'm Smith. The big maple, once an acorn. Desperate to be the oak Miss Tomson whispered.